The last time I visited Puerto Rico, my nephew was less than 10 years old. He’s almost 30 now. So, it’s been a full decade, maybe two, since I visited the island where:
- My father was born a U.S. citizen, lost his father in an accident cutting sugarcane, moved to the mainland, fought in WWII, earned his bachelors degree thanks to the GI bill, went on to study law, was elected to the New York State Assembly, and became a New York State Appellate Court Justice. I love his story.
- My grandparents retired to live farm-to-table and locavore way before it was fashionable. I love their story, too.
- Our extended family spent joyful Christmas holidays and endless summers swimming, body-surfing and playing on beaches that ranged from crystalline to surfer-worthy, and returned home for huge mid-day meals followed by a siesta, often to the rhythm of rain on “persianas” – long thin horizontal metal shutters that provide shade as well as protection from hurricanes.
- I lived with my grandmother the year after my grandfather died because my mother didn’t want her to be on the farm alone; and
- After my grandmother passed, the few times I visited the island, tears blurred my vision, from the time the plane touched the runway in San Juan, to the time we reached cruising altitude en route home.
So, I had not been back.
Until this year.
I am here for a few months. As I re-discover la isla del encanto, I’d love to share it with you.
